


I would enter your sleep if I could, and guard you there.

by techieturnover



Category: Black Sails
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Pre-Canon, References to Suicide, also miranda is trans because i said so and no one can stop me, and baby thomas and baby miranda, but also mush, but then miranda busted in and was like TRY ME, dark themes, idk i wanted to write something really off about james having a dream about thomas, the dream isnt graphic but it is very clear what happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26723005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/techieturnover/pseuds/techieturnover
Summary: Even years after their exile, James is plagued by nightmares. After a particularly chilling misery, Miranda attempts to ease both of their pain with a memory of happier times.
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton, Miranda Barlow/Captain Flint | James McGraw, Miranda Barlow/Thomas Hamilton
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27





	1. The Dream

**Author's Note:**

> So I decided to split this into two parts for narrative sake, the first chapter is the dream, the second is Miranda comforting James. Because he deserves nice things. Am I 100% happy with this? No but it's been sitting in my drafts for six months so OUT YOU GO YOU NAUGHTY FIC. Enjoy <3

The streets by the south port are as crowded as they always are when there’s to be a hanging. Anticipatory screams and yells already echo even though James is some distance away. There is something odd in the air, some tingling on the back of his neck - but he looks back several times and sees no one following him. He draws even with the edge of the crowd. The platform is empty although a noose clearly hangs - ready for whomever is to be sentenced next. 

“Have you seen one of these before?” 

James turns and grins up at Thomas - Thomas? - the sun blinding him momentarily. Thomas looks pale. James cannot tell if it is the light or illness, but his skin looks decidedly paler than the flushed liveliness James remembers. But then, he supposes, Thomas has been away for quite a while. Perhaps this is something he’s forgotten or perhaps misremembered. 

“That’s supposed to be my line.” 

Thomas smiles. “Oh, you’re right, aren’t you.” 

Thomas’ answer unsettles James, even as Thomas’ smile makes his heart leap. 

Something isn’t right. The sense that he’s missing something grows stronger with every minute. “You’re here.” 

“So are you.” 

Thomas is still smiling but it is so different from any smile James has seen grace his lips. The warmth is not there, and there is something haunted behind his eyes that replaces the acute intelligence that James had come to love so well. 

James looks to the gallows but there is no one there, still. The sight of the rope makes something twist in him again. The crowd grows so loud they have to shout to be heard even as close as they are. 

“Who is he?” James chances, returning to their reversed script, if only to hear Thomas speak again. But Thomas doesn’t answer immediately, instead just meets James’ eyes sadly. 

“He isn’t sure. They’re late - perhaps he lost his way a bit.”

“What?”

“He’s been asked if he wants to repent. Beg for forgiveness in the eyes of God and Queen Anne.”

James feels a familiar ire rise in his chest. “What has he got to apologize for?”

And finally, a smile James recognizes breaks over Thomas’ face. Proud and delighted, and James grasps for anything to say that will keep it there.

“We were right about the Pirates.” Thomas raises an eyebrow, but the smile stays so James continues. “They are capable of changing-”

“Sir.” One of Thomas’ attendants comes up to him on the side opposite James, interrupting their conversation. 

Thomas looks disappointed. 

“Ah, is it time already?” The man nods. James realizes he can’t remember the servant’s name. What was his name? 

Thomas removes his coat and hands it to the man at his side and James feels a shocked cry escape his lips. 

Underneath the fine red coat everything is wrong. Thomas is thin, his clothes barely more than rags. Without the long sleeves James can clearly see chafed and bruised wrists. Thomas leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts over James’ ear as he speaks.

“It's not him I wanted you to see. It's them.”

Horror and bile start building in him as Thomas starts walking forward. James reaches out, but he is already too far ahead. The crowd parts like the red sea, but crashes behind Thomas so that James has to push past the onlookers. He cries out for Thomas, to no avail. 

James recognizes faces in the crowd. Some are from London, from Thomas’ salons. Some are pirates he has sailed with. All of them jeer as Thomas walks forward.

James attempts to barrel through, desperate and already crying in terror. Thomas is almost at the platform now. He looks back and his eyes find James. He speaks, but his voice sounds far away and high pitched, as if whispered from very far away. “James.” 

James renews his pursuit as the crowd closes further, jeers and screeches drowning out his pleas for Thomas to stop.

“James!”

Thomas smiles again and starts his ascent.


	2. The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this fic vaguely exists in a universe of my own creation, in which Thomas knew John Locke, and some of the other things I've written about are also referenced - the vase incident with Lord Casings is in my other fic ["Into The Blinding Sun"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23550160) and it's much happier than this one. A nice pallet cleanser, tbh.
> 
> ANYWAY yeah, enjoy!

Miranda isn’t sure what wakes her at first, but the shuffling and high pitched moans from beside her force her fully awake. James is muttering, begging, for someone not to do something. His hands twitch in the sheets. It’s when he mutters Thomas’ name that she feels a sob ripped from her own throat. It’s been years and James is still tormented by this ghost. 

She calls his name softly. He doesn’t wake, a litany of “no,” and “Thomas,” and “please don’t,” still falling from his lips.

She calls louder, running a hand down his cheek to cup his jaw. She knows better than to shake him awake, but touch has proven effective in the past. He finally responds to the pressure, his eyes flying open as his entire body lunges up and forward. Miranda sits up beside him.

“It's all right.” She tries to keep her voice steady. James flies out of the bed, pacing frantically and rubbing his eyes as if he's trying to scrub something from them. 

Miranda catches his arm as he passes her again and the look on his face when he meets her eyes confirm her fears. James looks haunted. Miranda opens her arms, hoping he won’t turn away. She feels like she could use some comfort, too. Some assurance that she isn't alone even with him here.

Thankfully he sits back on the bed, folding into the embrace and burying his face in her hair. 

“Which one was it?” James has no shortage of nightmares, but there are few that leave him this unsettled. Usually they are the ones that torment him habitually. 

“The gallows,” is all he gets out, but it is all she needs. She pulls him closer, feeling him tighten his arms around her in response. 

After a few moments of silent comfort he speaks again. “Can you...” he pauses and she waits for him to formulate his request. “Can you tell me about your life with him? A time you were both happy?” The wistful tone to his voice is what breaks her the most. This dream always leaves him guilty, angry and hurt. But he has never before asked for something like this in the wake of it. Perhaps that is some progress, she reasons. 

“Of course.”

After thinking for a moment, drawing up memories of laughter and love and joy that feel so very far away from where they are now, one particular memory pushes to the forefront. 

“This was, oh it must have been 1693 or thereabouts,” she starts the tale, shifting so that they are both laying down. James moves to lay his head on her shoulder. “I remember it was just after John Locke had published the Two Treatisies, and Thomas was chasing after the idea that man was created to be free with the dedication of a bloodhound.” 

James laughs - a small, weak sound at the back of his throat. He doesn’t say anything though, and she continues on.

“We had met a few months prior while I was visiting Lady Masham, in fact, because Thomas had managed to follow Locke there. I assume the man had come for some peace and quiet but unfortunately for him, he found Thomas instead.”

She reflects on their first meeting, too - the spark that had immediately existed between them - of companionship, of the budding idea in both of them that they existed outside the realm of England’s traditions. The ache that still exists where that kinship had been makes her throat close up, but she swallows and presses on. James is listening intently, trying to distract himself as much as she is from the reality they’ve found themselves in. 

“At any rate, we were both in attendance at a party. I forget whose, but Kitty was also there - without Peter yet. And a mutual friend, Eliza Graves.” 

“Thomas was there to meet with Eliza, actually, but they weren’t a very good match.” She hears James snort and knows he must be thinking about the woman he’d met at a number of Thomas’ salons. Married now to a loving but not overly bright man, she’d gotten her wish for a husband content only with the finer things in life.

“Whose idea was that arrangement?” James’ voice is low, his enunciation barely decipherable from where his mouth rests now against the swell of her breast, easy and heavy. 

“Peter’s,” she says, hoping the small lie isn’t detectable. “I believe he’d set his sights on Kitty by that point, and thought he could get close to her if Thomas grew fond of Eliza.” The match had indeed brought Peter and Kitty together, although through a wholly different set of circumstances, so it’s not completely a lie. It had been Alfred’s idea initially, of course, but she knows better than to bring up his name, now. James’s breathing has only just started to even. She refuses to feel guilt about this one act of kindness she can give James. 

James’ continued mirth eases the feeling.

“Let me guess, Eliza fell asleep during one of Thomas’ tangents?”

Miranda can't help but laugh. She wants to laugh. It’s been so long since they’ve laughed together. 

“Not quite, Eliza was convinced that Thomas was a cad. She thought because he didn’t seem interested in her, or in marriage as a whole, that he was already getting what he wanted, so to speak.” James curls into her side as his laughter intensifies. It isn’t anything close to the full body thing she knew from him in London, but it is genuine at least, and the amusement passes to her as well.

“Eliza brought her concerns to me - I had met Thomas before, you see, on one of the trips he’d made to Damaris Masham’s house in pursuit of Locke. So Eliza thought I would surely have an idea if her hunch was correct.”

“You’ve told me about that - I’m surprised Locke survived the sheer magnitude of Thomas’ idealism.”

“I won’t say that his continued acquaintance with Thomas isn’t what caused his death,” she murmurs back, and the conversation stops for a bit, something warm and comforting passing between them at the words - so fond and true to Thomas’ heart and conviction. 

“I told her the man I’d met hadn’t seemed like that sort of person, but she was unconvinced. I was still new to her circle so she might have thought I was simply naive.” 

“How did Thomas react to the news that he was chasing skirts?” 

“He laughed. In the middle of the ballroom, and loud enough that we interrupted at least a few conversations.” She has to pause at that part of the memory, Thomas’ sheer disbelief and mirth at the idea had charmed her more than anything else. He was so honestly bemused by the rumor that she’d known there wasn’t an ounce of truth to it. 

“Eliza still wasn’t convinced. I’m not sure you knew enough of her to remember but she has always been quite set in her opinions.”

“Hmm,” James responds before falling salient again briefly. “I believe I spoke to her only once, but based on her happiness at being married to Lord Casings I can imagine she might share his hard headedness.” 

“She does indeed.” And Miranda knows James is also likely thinking of the vase incident. “Quite a nice woman otherwise, but once she’s made up her mind I doubt God himself could change it.” She can feel James’ breath evening out against her skin, a sign that he is finally relaxing, forgetting the terror and grief from the nightmare. Her story is almost over, but if Miranda has learned anything over the last few months it is that James never minds a few good embellishments to an otherwise straightforward story. 

“So, having thoroughly ruined any budding relationship with Eliza, Thomas and I began to talk.”

“We also danced, of course, and Thomas was just as terrible as I was at the time so we made quite a good pair. I believe we stepped on each other’s toes somewhat evenly, and Thomas was very good natured about the whole thing. It was incredibly refreshing as you can imagine, after all the stuffy stuck up young men one usually encounters at those sorts of parties.” 

Miranda takes a moment to remember every detail of that party - her first since she had managed to convince Damaris of her own womanlyness - when the entire world had seemed brighter. She thinks it's only fitting that Thomas had become a permanent part of her life then, too. 

“We’d already done a bit of bonding - trading books at the Masham estate and such, but he’d been called home after Locke had gotten word to Alfred about his ‘obnoxious and inappropriate heir, whose behavior regarding personal space resembles less a dignified young man of the upper gentry and more a rather hard headed spaniel.’”

James has stopped responding, his breathing completely slowed now and his arm gone slack where it rests on her side. She meanders through the rest of the story, speaking mostly to herself now. 

“"He was still forming his own opinions, breaking through an idea and pounding it to the dirt every week in the search for his own personal truth. He wouldn't find our dear Marcus for another few years. That was, I think, when I truly knew I wanted to spend my life with him. He was so dedicated to finding the truth of things. He knew that the world and people could change, and he truly wanted to be a part of that. Of the metamorphosis of society into something fairer.”

Of course, she hadn’t revealed her own truths to Thomas until much later, but even at these initial introductions to his character, she’d found herself entirely intrigued by the way he spoke of humanity and its propensity for change.

As she finishes the tale she listens, quietly, to James’ breathing. It’s even and peaceful now: he is soundly asleep again. There are still tear trails on his face - she can feel them on her own skin where he’d been resting. 

They’re so broken, still. The hole left by Thomas a gaping wound that James seems unable to let close. Miranda knows he doesn’t want to let Thomas go. She doesn’t either, not his memory. But something feels like James still hopes he’ll come back. Like he can’t allow Thomas even a peaceful rest, and for them to begin whatever life they can lead together. 

She tries not to begrudge him for it. Whatever her own feelings for Thomas, or his for her, Thomas and James had completely transformed one another.

She thinks about Thomas again, about the years she had with him. They were good. Never enough, but good. Filled with love and laughter and a kind of steadfast compassion that was singularly Thomas’ gift to the world. Miranda only hopes that she and James are able to make something resembling that goodness, eventually. She hopes they’re given the time.

James moves closer as she rearranges them to lay back beside one another, even in sleep seeking comfort. His arms tighten around her and the warmth from his body envelops her. Miranda has always hated the cold, and the way that James seems to both seek human touch and radiate warmth soothes her temper. They’ve lost Thomas, but she will not lose James as well. Nor will she let him be so broken by the loss they’ve suffered that they cannot remake themselves, heal and move on and find whatever joy is still able to be afforded to them. 

This, she resolves, is what she will have learned from all the years that Thomas refused to let London tell them they could not be joyful. For every moment he had taught and confirmed in her the idea that a life within society could be a good one. She and James just have to find their way back there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments absolutely feed my soul <33
> 
> Join me on tumblr @ [im-the-punk-who](https://im-the-punk-who.tumblr.com/) for more terrible fic ideas!


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